That Most Critical Shot
by Undomiel5
Summary: Across America thousands of banks are robbed every year. Few robbers, however, if they were smart, would think it wise to rob a bank in Quantico, Virginia, a bank two blocks away from police headquarters and just next door to the FBI. But yet, one cold December day, two bank robbers did just that, turning a normal training day for the HRT into a mission to save one of their own.
1. Introduction

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Numb3rs, its particular characters, or the plots of its episodes. All I own are the plots of my specific stories and a few original characters.

 **A/N:** All information on FBI's Hostage Rescue Team has been garnered from online sources available to the public. While this story strives for as great as accuracy as possible, there will be unavoidable inaccuracies. No disrespect is intended to the members of HRT who put their lives on the line to keep Americans safe.

* * *

The Marine Corps Base Quantico in Quantico, Virginia covers a staggering 55,148 acres of land. The Base is home to the Marine Corps Office Candidate School, the Marine Corps Brig, and the DEA training academy. Besides being a Marine Corps Base, Quantico is probably most well-known for housing the FBI: its academy (along with Hogan's Alley), its main laboratory, and HRT (Hostage Rescue Team).

HRT is the FBI's elite tactical unit, tasked with resolving hostage situations around the United States, assisting with manhunts, and executing high-risk search-warrants, among many other scenarios. Three teams of thirty men each rotate through three cycles of 120 days (training, operations, and support).

HRT operates out of a small compound on Quantico Base near the FBI Academy. Near HRT Headquarters, a large plainly-built building, the operators have an outdoor range all to themselves to practice on. At Tactical Firearms Training Center, they practice close-combat encounters in a simulated environment. They even have a mock-up of a jetliner to practice for hostage situations on aircrafts.

This story begins on a cold winter's day in December 2007, when Red Team was on its operation cycle. Not currently deployed, the operators were spending the day training, unaware that their normal day was about to take a drastic turn, leaving the Team in a race to save one of their own.


	2. The Calm Before the Storm

HRT Headquarters was a large, multi-level building. Built to house 90 operators along with their support staff, it contained briefing rooms, offices for team-leaders and subordinates, storage rooms for assorted types of gear, and training facilities. Most of the training facilities were confined to the basement of the building – a huge, single-room floor that was half-exercise room and half-practice arena.

Eight of Red Team's thirty operators were gathered around the practice arena on this day, watching two of their teammates – 'Hank' Foster and Cameron Saunders – sparing. The two men were very different both in appearance and in fighting styles. Hank Foster was tall with blond hair, blue eyes, and a bright smile. With the ease and energy of youth, he moved quickly around and around his opponent just out of reach, rushing in quickly when he saw an opening before lunging back out of reach. Cameron Saunders, on the other hand, had dark hair and eyes, a shorter and compact build, and grim features. His movements were conservative, wasting no unnecessary energy, as his eyes scanned his opponent's form for any mistakes.

Finally, Saunders – Red Team's close quarter combat (CQB) specialist – found a mistake, a slight one some would not have spotted, but a mistake all the same, and exploited it. In a move so quick those watching had trouble seeing, Saunders tripped Foster, who landed on his back on the padded mats with a crash and oof of breath.

"Good try, Hank! You lasted longer this time," a woman's voice called out from the edge of the ring. Asha Hunter was the only woman not only on Red Team but in the entire HRT. Hunter stood out among her teammates not just because of her gender but also because of her looks. Tall and wiry, she had copper skin that hinted of Indian blood, thick dark hair, and, oddly enough, blue eyes.

"Not long enough," Hank grumbled, crossing the mat to climb over the barrier to stand next to her.

"You're getting much better," she soothed, "It takes time to get as good as Cameron or the rest of us are." Hank was a good hand-to-hand fighter. All the operators were. No one with poor hand-to-hand skills could even get into HRT, since he would be a liability that could endanger the team and those they were trying to save. Yet, Saunders was the CQB expert on the team with a third degree black belt in Krav Maga along with a black belt in another unspecified martial art. Saunders was extremely hard to beat.

Hank didn't reply but leaned his forearms on the railing to watch the next pair: Connor Ross and Aaron Holmes practice. Ross was the second most-experienced operator on the team after their leader, Dan Torre. An older man with salt-and-pepper hair, he usually served as point man on the assault team. Holmes, a former Marine, was at least seven years younger and usually served as the team's pilot when needed. The two were much more evenly matched than Foster and Saunders had been, and their match promised to be an interesting one. Ross was stronger and more experienced, but Holmes was slightly faster and more agile. In the end, the match was a draw after they fought it out to the time limit.

With the last match of the morning finished, the ten operators began to disperse around the room, cleaning up and putting their gear away. As they worked, footsteps were heard on the metal staircase that led upstairs, and after a moment Dan Torre entered the work-out room. Tall, dark-haired, with a craggy face, Dan Torre was Red Team's leader and had been for over five years.

"Lunch call!"

The way Red Team did things two of the team members drove into Quantico (the town, not the base) and brought back food for the whole team on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The only difficulty was getting thirty people to agree on only one or, sometimes, two restaurants out of the six or seven in town.

"First things first," Torre continued, "who is up to go get food?"

"I am, sir," Asha Hunter called.

"Me, too, boss," said Marshall Foster, their bomb expert and back-up point man. He was a physical imposing man in his late 30s with dark hair and eyes; he looked rather scary but was actually a good-natured family man. He was not related, as far as anyone knew, to Hank Foster.

"Where do people want food from then? Try to agree on just one, please! We don't have all day for food runs." The boss was an old hat at keeping the peace when trying to make his subordinates agree on food. Everyone liked to joke that he got to keep up with his negotiating skills by mediating disagreements over restaurant choices. It was that or he was just using the same skills that he used on his children years earlier.

"Dominoes," three people shouted, the way their voices meddled together it was unclear who had voted for this option. "S & G," another called. Christopher O'Connor, our second newest agent, said, "The café." "Sam's," two people called. "Japanese," yet another person called out. "Dominoes," someone called out late.

Marshall and Asha looked at each other and smiled. It was like this most every day they brought food back. Thirty different people, most with vastly different personalities – it was very hard to get to a consensus.

"Four votes for Dominoes, and two votes for Sam's," said Dan, "The rest of the team wants Dominoes with Sam's also the 2nd favorite. Since the temperature outside is just below freezing and since I am quite sure Marshall and Asha don't want to go to the opposite ends of town to get food, I am making an executive decision: Dominoes, it is."

Those who had not voted for pizza gave good natured groans of protest, even though they would not actually complain about actually having to eat pizza. While the other eight tried to decide on what pizzas they wanted, Marshall and Asha left for the locker rooms to change into street clothes. By the time they had returned, their teammates had largely dispersed to attend to other tasks, and only Dan and Hank were waiting for them as they exited the lockers room on the main floor of HRT Headquarters.

The boss handed them the list: pepperoni, veggie, cheese, and Hawaiian. Asha made a face at the last choice on the list. She liked ham, and she liked pineapple, but she was a firm believer that putting the two together on a pizza was absolutely disgusting!

"Hurry back," the boss said, "we have a lot left to do today."

"Yes, sir," replied Marshall and Asha almost in sync.

As they turned toward the main door, Hank asked, "Can I come?"

Asha stopped dead in surprise and then did a 180 back toward her teammate, while Marshall continued on outside to warm up the SUV. "You do know what the temperature is outside, don't you?"

"I do," Hank replied, "though we've had worse out in the field."

"You sure you want to come?"

"Yes."

"Suit yourself," Asha said with a shrug, "you bored?"

"No," he replied with a laugh, "I just like the weather and don't want to stay inside waiting for you two to get back with lunch."

"I grew up in Montana, and I still think you're nuts," she said; a slight smile on her face took the bit out of her words, as she pushed open the main door enough to make sure they could both get out without getting hit by the quickly closing doors. _The springs on those doors are too good._ _Someday someone is going to get smacked in the face_ , Asha thought. Exiting their nicely heated headquarters, they were hit smack in the face with a blast of freezing air. According to the forecast running on a TV inside, the temperature was just below freezing with a wind chill in the low 20s.

Just as the two got to the edge of the sidewalk, Marshall pulled around a black SUV to save his teammates the walk across the parking lot. "The sooner it warms up the better," he grumbled as they climbed in: Asha in the passenger seat, Hank in the back. Marshall had been born in the Deep South and hated cold weather with every fiber of his being.

"It's December, Marshall," Asha replied, "You'll probably have to wait awhile."

He did not reply but only reached to turn on the radio. The station he finally settled on, after a few minutes, was playing jazz. Asha didn't really like jazz, and Hank wasn't a big fan either, but the music was quiet and would help the 15 to 20 minute drive to Quantico go faster. Lost in thought, Asha starred out the window at the passing scenery **.**

As the SUV crossed from MCB 1 onto Russel Road, Asha finally stirred, pulling out a cellphone from the hip pocket of her cargo pants and started typing out a message. Her husband, Ian Edgerton, had been grousing earlier that morning as they left their apartment about some of the students in his latest batch of trainees at sniper school. She was hoping that his morning class had gone better than she feared it would from what had been saying.

*Did you manage not to fail those students already?* She texted.

Ian Edgerton was the 4th or 5th best sniper in the United States and a long time removed from being on the level of his students. He was relatively patient and helpful to those who actually tried and worked hard, but there was almost always one or two in each class that tried his temper almost to the breaking point and made him want to reconsider his work as a sniper instructor at the FBI Academy when he was not off tracking fugitives.

Five minutes later as they passed the airfield, her phone buzzed with a response.

*Barely.*

A couple of minutes later her phone buzzed again. *Whoever screened some of these students should be fired.*

Asha half-grinned, half-grimaced, her feelings equal parts amusement and sympathy. A sniper herself, she was not sure whether to feel sorry for her husband, his students, or both. _Probably both_ , she decided after a moment's thought. *Teach the good students. Tolerate the bad ones.*

After a moment, she sent one last text, not expecting Ian to continue on about his students. *Will you get out at the usual time?*

*Plan to.*

As Marshall pulled the SUV into the parking lot of the Dominoes, carefully dodging several snow piles, Asha sent her final text. *I'll see you at home.*

Since it wasn't quite time for the lunch rush yet, the time being just before noon, the Dominoes was mostly deserted as the three FBI agents entered with a blast of cold air. The air inside was pleasantly warm from the heat of the ovens, and the workers greeted the newcomers by name. Red Team was fond enough of pizza that they had been bringing back food at least once every other week for years. Marshall went up to the counter to put in the order, while Hank and Asha sat down at a table in the corner farthest away from the door, giving them a good view of the door and the whole restaurant.

A couple minutes later, Marshall joined them, "20 to 25 minutes."

Hearing this, Asha with a slight sigh climbed back to her feet, "If it will be that long, I think I have enough time to run over to the Bank: I need to deposit a check quickly."

"You want company?" Hank asked, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

"No, thanks," Asha replied, pulling her overcoat back on. She zipped her fleece vest up to her chin but left her overcoat unbuttoned so she had quick access to her pistol, "You two stay where it's warm. I won't be long."

Asha left her two teammates watching the TV and headed out the door back into the cold. Pulling on her gloves as she walked, she plodded across the parking lot with her head bent against the slight wind blowing powdery snow from earlier that morning into her eyes. She had spent the first ten or so years of her life in south-eastern Montana, which was on average much colder in winter than Virginia. Yet, too many hours spent behind a scope in open terrain freezing to death while covering her teammates had left the sniper with a lingering dislike for cold temperatures and a much greater appreciation for warm buildings. She spent a minute stamping her feet and blowing on her fingers while waiting for light at the corner of C Street to turn in her favor and then jogged the long block-and-a-half down Potomac Avenue to the bank, which was pleasantly warm as she entered with a blast of cold air.

The bank was quiet that morning. Scanning the room, Asha saw three tellers working the counters, one security guard (near the doors outside), and eight customers including her. The next few minutes passed quietly. Two of the customers finished their business and departed. The line Asha was in (the one on the far left) moved forward: only two people were left in front of her.

Suddenly a woman off to her right shrieked, "GUN!"


	3. The Storm Breaks

Within a split second the room erupted into chaos. Another woman screamed high and piercing. A baby started to wail, its shrieking cry just as piercing. Asha's heart almost stopped cold hearing its cry. Men shouted. All the voices merged into a deafening and distracting cacophony.

Asha whirled right toward the shout, her hand instinctively moving towards her left hip where her duty pistol, a Springfield 1911, was hidden under her overcoat. Even as she caught sight of the security guard moving towards the counter with his gun already drawn, she also saw the reason for the woman's shriek: she hadn't been alarmed by a concealed carry weapon, accidentally revealed. It was a bank robbery.

Two thoughts went through Asha's mind in a split second even as she was analyzing the situation and starting to move for her gun: _You have got to be kidding me!_ and _What are the chances?_ A man—tall, Caucasian, tattoo on his neck—carrying a duffle bag was at the middle counter pointing a pistol—a full-sized Glock—straight at the female teller who was standing petrified with her hands in the air. Another man—stocky, Caucasian, better dressed—was standing alone in the line for the far counter pointing a sawed-off shotgun at the crowd. With the civilians in the way, Asha had no clear line of fire to either suspect. She stopped her reach for her pistol but sidestepped twice to the right so she was between a woman with a stroller—the baby she had heard a moment before—and the bank robbers, using her own body as a human shield.

The security guard—Caucasian, stocky, upper 30s—was still moving forward, shouting, "Put the gun down! Put the gun down!" He never stood a chance. The gunman at the counter didn't even twitch. The gunman with the shotgun turned on his heel and shot the guard at the same time the guard pulled the trigger. The guard went down with a crash and lay motionless. His gun skittered off to the side well out of reach. The gunman unfortunately wasn't hit.

With the noise of the guns and the sight of the fallen guard, more screams pierced the air. Even Asha could not restrain a flinch. The gunman with the shotgun turned back toward the crowd, "Down on the ground! Now!" His voice cracked like a whip, silencing the crowd.

Everyone hastened to obey. Some dropped flat on the ground. Some sat. Asha only knelt. Trying to keep one eye on the threatened teller, she whispered to the crying mother beside her, "Stay quiet. Stay calm. We'll be alright." The mother gave her a weak, watery smile in return.

With the hostages compliant, for the moment, Tweedledumber (with the shotgun) turned half his attention back to Tweedledum (with the pistol) and the teller who was putting cash into the duffle bag with hands shaking like she had the palsy. The two robbers were talking, maybe arguing, with each other in quiet voices, inaudible to the others nearby.

When Tweedledumber's eyes shifted back to the hostages, scanning for any sign of trouble, Asha slowly started to shift, careful not to surprise the robber. His attention almost immediately locked on to her. "I said 'Down on the ground!'" He growled, taking a step forward and brandishing the shotgun.

Painfully slowly, Asha continued to rise out of a crouch, praying that he wouldn't just pull the trigger, "The guard," she said, careful to keep her hands clearly visible and away from her body, as well as keeping her body language submissive and nonthreatening, "he's in bad shape. Let me help him. I have medical training." She could see that the guard was making slight movements now and then, so she knew he wasn't dead, not yet at least. Asha also knew that being shot at close range with a shotgun slug, even while wearing a bullet proof vest, could produce devastating injuries that could be fatal if not properly and quickly treated. She only hoped her limited medical training was enough to help the guard until the situation was resolved and he could be taken to a hospital.

Tweedledumber hesitated but finally acquiesced, though with the warning, "If you try anything funny or try to make a run for it, you'll get the other shell."

"I just want to help him. I won't try anything," Asha said, uneasily turning her back on the robber to make her way over to the security guard. She had to be careful not to look or act like a cop any more than she already had.

Tweedledumber moved behind her, keeping her at gunpoint as she walked over to the security guard. Taking a quick glance back, Asha saw him kneel down at the side of the room and pick up the guard's gun, which he then took over to Tweedledum. Make that three guns the robbers now had.

Back at the counter, Tweedledum still had the teller at gunpoint. It looked, however, like she

was almost finished loading the duffle bag. Maybe, if the teller hadn't managed to push the panic button, the robbers could leave without anyone else getting hurt. But it wasn't to be. As Asha knelt beside the injured security guard, she caught sight of movement coming towards the Bank from down the street. It looked like help was on the way either alerted by the Bank's panic button or the shotgun blast a minute before.

"What's your name?" Asha whispered to the security guard.

"Luke," he replied, his voice tight with pain. His forehead was beaded with sweat, and his eyes were clenched shut.

"I'm Asha. Where are you hurt?"

"Shell caught me in the side. Right side. Vest took a lot of the blast, but several of my ribs are broken, I think. Hurts to breathe." His words were gasped out, punctuated by short, shallow breaths.

"Bleeding?" Asha asked, scanning his form over. His clothes were dark, so it was hard to see if they were bloody, and there was no blood that she could see on the white tiles beneath him. She wondered if he was a former police officer or military from the way he gave the report of his injuries.

"Yes," he replied. He lifted his right hand quickly, so she could see the shiny, tacky blood covering his gloved hand.

Asha patted his shoulder gently, "Stay still, and don't try to talk more. I'll do what I can." She ran her hand gently over his vest until her fingers found the hole in the vest and came away wet with red, sticky blood. The lighting in the room didn't make it easy to find a hole in a dark vest contrasted with blood and a dark shirt. Slowly undoing the Velcro on the pockets of her cargo pants and wincing at the noise, she sifted through the contents, feeling for something that would work as a bandage. On the first try, she found a small sowing kit and a package of water purification tablets. On the second try, she found a huge bandana. On the third try, she found two small rolls of gauze and a penlight.

"Hold these," she whispered, "I need both hands."

Luke gingerly reached up with his left hand and took the bandana and gauze. Quickly glancing back at the gunmen every few seconds, Asha slowly undid the Velcro holding Luke's bullet-proof vest in place. More blood started to flow from his side with the loss of pressure, making her wish all the more for the presence of one of the two team medics. With one hand, sticky with blood, she scrabbled for her penlight, managed to turn it on, and stuck it between her teeth so she had both hands free.

Shotgun wounds were nasty, and Luke's wound was no exception. With the penlight to illuminate his side, she could see nasty bruising that had already appeared around the wound itself. The bruising combined with the pain and shortness of breath made it almost certain that he had multiple broken ribs, not unsurprising after taking a shotgun blast at close range. Broken ribs and gunshots wounds, in the same area, made for a nasty combination. She was going to have to keep pressure on the wound to keep him alive, but it was going to be a fine line between putting enough pressure to stop the bleeding and not putting so much pressure that she shifted the broken ribs, possibly causing fatal internal injuries.

The wound itself was about the size of her slightly open fist, low on his right side near the bottom of his ribcage. On the left side, shiny white bone, streaked with blood and other fluids, was visible, if her knowledge of anatomy was correct, it was either the last or the second to last of the false ribs. Most of what she could see was torn flesh and torn muscle. At the very right of the wound was something that she could not identify and could only hope was not his intestine.

Asha took the two rolls of gauze back and fashioned them into a thick bandage and added the clean bandana on top for good measure. Instead of redoing the Velcro, she used her non-dominant hand to keep pressure on the wound so she could feel how bad the bleeding was and keep track of his breathing.

"Bad?" Luke asked in a low voice. For just getting shot, he was surprisingly calm.

Asha hesitated for a moment but then nodded, "I'm not a medic, but I'd say so."

While keeping a wary eye on Tweedledum and Tweedledumber, Asha used the chance to be nearer the doors to also keep an eye on what the police were doing. No police cars were in the street straight in front of the bank. There were no lights, no sirens, but she could see glimpses of officers moving about outside, trying to stay concealed behind cover. She wondered how long it would take the FBI and HRT to get involved. The whole community was going to take a bank robbery this close to Quantico personally, but HRT was going to take it especially personally with her, one of their own agents, inside.

Finally, Tweedledum and Tweedledumber, carrying a loaded bag of cash, made for the door. Asha held her breath. If they got out the door before they saw the police, the situation would probably be over without further innocent blood spilled. If not, well, it was going to be a very long day!

What clued them in, Asha wasn't sure, since her view outside was limited, but suddenly just as Tweedledumber put his hand on the door, Tweedledum jerked back, swearing a blue streak. "Police," he growled.

If she had been the swearing type, Asha would have felt like swearing, too. This day had just gotten a lot worse. Luke needed medical attention badly, and now the robbers were going to be trapped and on the defensive. Not a good recipe for a painless afternoon.


	4. The Storm Falls

**Author's Note #1: I'm terribly sorry for the long delay since chapter 3. I have always had every intention of finishing this story, but my muse abandoned me for awhile, and I was stuck on how to finish the last 3 chapters. Chapter 5 is finished and is being edited. It should be up in the next day or two. Chapter 6, the conclusion, is partially written and should be up within the next week.**

* * *

With the arrival of the police, Tweedledum and Tweedledumber immediately retreated from the doors where they were visible to the police and vulnerable to sniper fire (not that they probably knew that) back to the tellers' counter where they had a reasonable sight-line of the entire bank.

Asha had a feeling that this was going to be a _very_ long day, just what Luke did not need. She has already used all the medical supplies she had in her pockets and doubted that the bank's first aid kit would be very useful. What she really needed was, ideally, a hospital, but right now Asha would have settled for Quick Clot, bandages, and a trained medic.

More and more cop cars were arriving outside, and the police were taking up defensive positions covering the main exit. _This was supposed to be my lunch break_ , Asha thought to herself, _Just my luck_.

The two idiot hostage takers— _really who robs a bank down the street from the police station and next door to the FBI and the Marines_ —were talking in low voices. Asha couldn't make out what they were saying, but both appeared agitated unsurprisingly, Tweedledumber more than Tweedledum. Their quick lunch-time heist had just turned into a standoff with the police and, almost certainly soon, the FBI.

Asha glanced quickly down at her watch and then over at the robbers to keep an eye on them: agitated robbers plus multiple guns was a dangerous combination. Agitated people with guns were less predictable and more prone to doing stupid things.

Around 5 minutes has passed since the robbery had begun. Hank and Marshall might or might not have heard the gunshots, but all the police cars screaming down to the bank definitely would have drawn their attention. _They'll come to investigate and help if possible. Once they know it's the bank, they'll call Dan. Dan'll call the higher-ups and get the ball-rolling to get HRT and the negotiators over here. If this turns into a long standoff, we're more qualified to deal with it than the local PD. Once HRT gets permission to come, they can be here in less than 10. I hope someone remembers to tell Ian_.

The minutes continued to tick by slowly. More cops were arriving. Tweedledum and Tweedledumber were still talking, their attention temporally off their hostages. Even with their inattention, Asha knew that even with access to a gun, she wouldn't have time to take out both before the other robber could turn his gun on her or the hostages. She did not have much of a choice but to sit tight. She forced herself to keep her breathing slow and even like she would if she were watching the same situation from the other side of her rifle scope. It was much more nerve-wracking being on this end of a robbery, despite her training and experience, but someone needed to keep a cool head.

Asha shifted from kneeling on the hard floor to sitting. She shook Luke's shoulder gently when she noticed that his eyes had drifted shut. "Keep your eyes open, and stay awake," she said very softly, "I'm going to take it as a personal affront to my medical skills if you die on me."

Luke gave a small smile, "Yes, ma'am."

When the bank phone rang—the negotiators making first contact—it was Tweedledum who answered, while Tweedledumber with the shotgun went back to watching the hostages. Tweedledumber, despite his bravado and threats, was the weak link of the two, Asha judged. He was nervous and on edge, and his hands were shaking slightly. He would probably be the first of the two to be willing to give himself up, but while he had a gun in his hands, he was very dangerous.

Tweedledum was the leader. He was in charge of the money, and the tattoo on his neck looked like it might be a gang tattoo. It was small, and Asha was too far away to make out all the details. He had been agitated when the plan had first gone wrong, but as he talked on the phone, his voice was calm and his face was grim and serious. She wished she was closer so she could hear at least one side of the conversation.

"Two hours, or I start shooting hostages," Tweedledum suddenly shouted and then slammed the phone back into its receiver. The cries from some of the hostages were quickly squashed when Tweedledumber brandished the shotgun and yelled, "Shut up!"

"That went well," Asha murmured under her breath. She was about midway between the doors and the counter, so she could talk a little if she kept her voice very low. She wondered what the demand had been. _Most likely a car_.

She glanced over at Tweedledum, making sure he wasn't doing anything while his temper was up, then outside to see what was happening. Among the cop cars and police officers, she caught sight of personal wearing FBI gear and thought she might even see some of her teammates. _Finally_. Nothing personal against the local cops, she just felt much better having known quantities working to solve the situation.

She glanced down at her watch. _25 minute mark_.

"I don't feel so good," said Luke.

Asha glanced back at him. Trying to split her attention between three groups was difficult.

"You're starting to go into shock," she said.

Luke's skin was several shades paler than it had been 10 or 15 minutes earlier. Blood was pooling on the floor beneath him, and his pulse and respiratory rate were both increased. All three were classic signs of shock. Asha switched on her penlight and checked on the bandages. Despite the steady pressure she had been keeping on the gut wound, he had already bled through the bandana and all the gauze she had on.

"Bother this," Asha grumbled, wiping the sweat off her forehead with her free hand, not noticing that she smeared fresh blood onto her face as she did so, "Where's Grant when I need him?"

Luke's eyes had gone closed again, and she tapped him on the cheek with one finger, "Stay awake. You go to sleep on me, and you're probably not going to wake up again."

Luke dragged his eyes back open with difficulty, and Asha saw that his eyes were dilated. One more check for shock. _You'd better move quickly, boss_ , she thought to herself, _I don't know how long I can keep him alive_. Assuming that the FBI personal she had seen outside were HRT, Asha knew it was going to take a little bit for Dan and the others to get up to speed so that they could (hopefully) take over.

Carefully keeping an eye on the opposition who had gone back to quietly talking, Asha slowly started to inch the zipper on her fleece-lined vest down centimeter by centimeter, uncaring of the red blood staining the white cloth. She wanted to take off her overcoat to drape over Luke but couldn't do that until she could use her vest to cover her duty pistol. The sound of the phone ringing again covered the noise of the zipper and allowed her to finish more quickly.

"I need you to hold this in place for a moment," Asha said, moving Luke's right hand to keep pressure on the blood-soaked bandage.

Then with the attention of the two hostage-takers temporarily diverted by the telephone call, which seemed to be going slightly better than the first since there was no yelling yet, Asha gingerly untucked her vest and pulled it over her holster and then took her overcoat off and draped it over Luke. With both hands covered in blood, she only managed to smear blood further across her clothes. _I'm going to look like an extra for a horror movie by the time this is over_.

She retook her position keeping pressure on Luke's wound, switching hands to give the other a break. Luke's pulse had risen a little more. She knew that she really needed to raise his legs a little but didn't have anything to do it with.

"You got a family?" She asked softly. She needed to keep him conscious even as the shock would make him drifty.

Luke nodded, "Wife and daughter."

"Think about them," she replied, "Keep fighting for them."

"How bout you?" He asked, struggling a little to get enough breath to get the words out.

"Married. No kids."

Tweedledum finished his conversation and replaced the phone in its cradle without the showy anger of the earlier time. _Progress_.

Asha knew that she needed more supplies to help Luke. What she really needed was a field-grade med kit, or one of the packs Grant kept stocked inside headquarters and in the trucks, but she was willing to settle for most anything that she could use as a bandage.

"Take this," she whispered, and Luke slowly, too slowly moved his hand into position. _I better make this quick. He won't be able to hold it long._ Slowly, carefully, Asha locked her fingers behind her head and then gingerly stood, her knees and lower legs protesting kneeling and sitting on a hard floor so long.

Tweedledum's attention, alerted by the movement, immediately snapped to her, but unlike Tweedledumber, he did not immediately start issuing threats.

"How's he doing?" Tweedledum asked instead, gesturing at the downed guard.

 _About as well as you think, moron._ She griped internally while saying aloud, "He's alive … for now, but I've run out of supplies. I need a first aid kit, if the bank has one, and an extra pair of hands."

The only male teller among the three bank employees carefully got to his feet, apparently taking some courage from the response to Asha's movements. "I know where it is."

"Get it," Tweedledum replied, "Slowly."

Asha knelt back down to put pressure on Luke's wound again as the teller went to get the kit. Tweedledum rifled through it quickly, removing a few things, but then let the teller bring it across.

"Thank you," Asha said quietly, "What's your name?"

"Charlie," the teller, a tall, lanky man with thin features similar to Valentin, replied.

"I'm Asha," she replied, "I need you to look through the kit and give me every bandage you can find or anything that would double as a bandage. Any hemostatic agents for blood clotting also, if you stock any."

Unfortunately, there was no Quick Clot in the kit, not that Asha had held out much hope that there would. Thankfully, there was enough gauze and bandages to make a thick pad to go over the top of the bandage that Luke had already bled through. The kit would prove itself useful after all.

"Lift up his feet about a foot, and hold them there for as long as you can."

Charlie did that, and Asha checked Luke's pulse again. It was a little higher, and his skin was feeling too cool for her liking. If he didn't get help soon, shock, blood loss, or both were going to kill him. _Bother this_. She checked her watch again. It was ticking toward the 40 minute mark. The problem was how soon was soon enough. She had medical training like all the members of the three HRT teams, but she wasn't a medic and didn't know for sure.

Tweedledumber was nervously pacing. Tweedledum was leaning nonchalantly against the counter surveying his hostages, while occasionally glancing outside. The phone rang again—the third time in just over 40 minutes. _Come on, boss, you need to get this done somehow_. With a baby and a severely injured man, HRT was more limited in what it could do to force an end to the siege: no smoke grenades and no tear gas.

Tweedledum put the phone down without hanging it up, his gaze laser-like focused on Asha and the injured guard. "Can he be moved?" He asked, gesturing at the guard.

Asha glanced up at him. She didn't dare rise now. Luke was drifting now in an out of consciousness, his skin clammy and his heart pounding. _Ah, a sign of good faith_. "Not much of a choice now," she replied, "There's nothing more I can do for him. He needs a hospital if he's going to make it and you both are going to avoid murder charges." Saying the last bit was a risk, but she wanted to see how he would respond.

Tweedledumber got even more antsy, but Tweedledum just responded, "The mother and baby can go, and so can the guard."

Asha repressed a sigh of relief. The prospect of getting the two most vulnerable hostages to safety was a big win. The robbers might think they were getting rid of their most troublesome hostages, but they were actually opening themselves up to more danger. The number of hostages would also drop from 13 to at most 10.

"He can't move on his own," she warned.

"Then carry him."

 _Blockhead, it's not that simple_. Asha gritted her teeth. Talking her way out of a situation was not her strong suit. She was a sniper and a fighter. Shooting someone was more up her alley. She took a deep breath and forced her temper back down. Getting herself shot would not do herself any good, obviously, and would lose an inside man for HRT.

"I'm barely keeping him from bleeding out as it is. He needs to be kept flat or as flat as possible like on a board or even a strong tarp."

Charlie twitched at that and seemed to shrink into himself, making himself smaller, before working up the courage to say, "There's a spare door in the back. We've been doing renovations for a while now."

Tweedledum ordered the calmer of the two female tellers and one of the other male hostages to go bring the door, with Tweedledumber 'guarding' them. Tweedledum then picked the phone back up, "I'll be sending out several of the hostages in a few minutes. Then you better get working faster on my car. Clock's ticking."

The two hostages returned with the door within a few minutes. It wasn't that big and didn't look extremely strong, but it would have to do. Charlie and the other man helped her transfer Luke carefully to the board. Then with the mother, carrying her baby in one arm, holding the door open, the two men carried the unconscious security guard out of the door. Asha could only hope that the doctors would be able to save him.

 _8 hostages left, and the two most vulnerable gone. One problem down. Several more to go_.


	5. The Storm Ends

**Author's Note #1: Just the conclusion to go after this. I hope you enjoy.  
Author's Note #2: Please review. I always appreciate getting constructive criticism and knowing how readers are enjoying my stories.**

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Once the released hostages made it out the door, Tweedledum forced Asha to relock the door at gun point and then motioned for her to take a seat much farther away from the exit with the other hostages.

Contrary to the hopes of the hostage takers and the other hostages (except for Asha, who had a better idea of what would be going on outside), the show of faith did little to advance the situation. Two more calls were made between Tweedledum and the FBI during the next hour as to the progress of the acquisition of a getaway car. To Tweedledum's disgust, annoyance, and frustration, the snow from the morning along with still icy roads from overnight was delaying getting a car to the bank, even though the original deadline was coming up around 2:30pm.

As the time ticked towards the deadline, Tweedledumber began to get more and more agitated, and dissension started to brew in the ranks. Tweedledum was still quite calm and confident, at least outwardly, that he and his buddy would manage to get away with the cash, sneering something at one point about "wishy-washy, pansy negotiators" and "them not letting this many civilians get killed at this time of year." To which Asha internally thought that Tweedledum might have more brains and street smarts than his buddy, but he knew nothing about how the police, Feds, or negotiating worked, which seemed slightly odd considering what she was pretty sure was a gang tattoo. Perhaps he was keeping up the bravado just on the outside.

In contrast, Tweedledumber was beginning to become quite convinced, from what snippets Asha could overhear of his conversations, that the two robbers were going to die if they did not surrender to the police. That fact was probably true. Tweedledumber also considered it unlikely that the two could escape with all the cops and Feds covering all the entrances. He preferred to surrender and not die and live to fight (and rob) another day, while Tweedledum was diehard focused on getting away with the spoils of the heist.

By 2:15, the other hostages, remembering the earlier threat that the robbers would start shooting hostages if their demands were not met, were getting nervous. Asha was slightly concerned but trusted her team to get them all out safely. At 2:20pm, the phone rang again.

"You better have my car ready. I've waited long enough," Tweedledum growled.

"You can have 'em once you get me my car. You got 10 minutes."

"The only way this ends is if you get me my car, or it might get real bloody in here."

Tweedledum slammed the phone down, making Tweedledumber flinch. With those threats, Asha concluded that her teammates were going to have to storm the place. Negotiations were going nowhere, and the deadline was almost upon them.

"Let's get out of here, Chris, while we still can. I don't want to die," said Tweedledumber, nervously glancing toward the door as if the police were going to appear any second and start shooting.

"You utter fool. No names," Tweedledum—Chris—shouted, before descending into a profanity laced rant.

"You can stay," Tweedledumber replied, "but I'm not." He put down the shotgun on the floor and then started towards the door with his hands high in the air.

He never made it half way. Chris leveled his pistol at his former partner's back and calmly pulled the trigger. Several of the hostages screamed. Asha flinched. Tweedledumber fell to the ground, a look of utter shock on his face. A slowly spreading pool of blood appeared under him. He never moved again.

Asha just looked at the body for a moment. Dan and her teammates would have heard the shot and would be coming ASAP. No more negotiating. There was only one way now this situation would end: with shooting and blood and death. But, Asha feared, they couldn't come immediately, and Chris, his blood up, looked ready to turn his gun on the hostages _then and now_.

Somehow Asha needed to stall or delay him. She did have her gun but, sitting on the floor the way she was, she was in a poor position to draw, and Chris would probably be able to pull the trigger first. Even if she stood, there would be the same problem. He was too far away to body slam, and he could shoot her before she could shoot him. Even if she got a shot off, she was very concerned about ricochets in such an enclosed room.

Only one solution occurred to her, as her mind whirred through option after option. The likelihood of safety was greater for the other hostages than for her, and she knew, just knew, that she was going to get flack, get lectured for it. Yet, she could think of no other plan.

Asha linked her fingers behind her head and slowly unfolded from her seat and rose.

"You want some, too?" Chris asked, brandishing the Glock, a savage look in his eyes that boded ill for the next person to cross him.

"I want to help you escape," Asha replied, moving just enough away from the group to keep his attention focused as much as possible on her and not the others.

"And how do you propose to do that?" He scoffed.

Asha swallowed hard and said a silent prayer before she spoke. Her next words were either going to get her shot or going to give Chris enough false confidence to step outside. "You need a hostage to get past the police and to your car when it arrives. The men outside are from the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team, and they're my teammates."

"YOU'RE A FED?"

"I am," Asha confirmed, holding her nerve in the face of his explosive ire, "and I'm the perfect hostage. My teammates will do anything they can to keep me alive. The only hostage you need is me. Let the others go." What she said was true up to a point. Her teammates would do all they could to get her out alive, but priority of life placed the civilians above her.

The look on Chris's face at this news transformed from burning anger to savage glee, an emotion that chilled Asha. She wondered for a moment if she had gotten herself in over a head. _Too late down. In for a penny, in for a pound. Servare vitas._

"Come here," he commanded.

Asha warily approached him, the other hostages waiting and watching with baited breath. Chris forced her against the counter and roughly searched her, quickly finding her duty pistol on her left hip and her two most easily acceptable knives.

"You never took a shot. Why?" He asked, stepping back and allowing her to turn around.

"Never had a chance. I wasn't willing to risk collateral damage," she answered honestly.

"Walk," said Chris, motioning with his free hand towards the door that led out to the street where the police and FBI were waiting.

Asha did, not like she had much of a choice. Chris followed close behind. One wrong move and she would end up with a bullet in her back. As they approached the door, Asha heard shouts and warnings from the police outside, "Suspect coming out."

Asha pushed the glass door open and stepped out onto the porch, Chris a step behind her, using her as a human shield. As soon as they were on the porch, she was caught in a choke hold, an attempt to keep her from dropping and leaving Tweedledum exposed. Though the hold was not tight enough to keep her from breathing, not yet, one of her hands shot up to the arm around her throat, both to steady herself and to be ready to resist.

Dan stepped out from behind the sheltering bulk of a police car, one of her teammates—she couldn't tell which—sheltering him with a ballistic shield. His face was calm, but his eyes were full of barely constrained fury at the threat to his sniper. Asha met his eyes and mouthed, "Sorry boss."

"Let me through to a car," Chris postured, "or watch your girl bleed."

Asha missed Dan's reply as the arm around her throat suddenly went tight, and her entire focus snapped to trying to get air into her lungs.

"Let her go," someone shouted. She wasn't sure who. Her lungs were starting to burn. Her chest hurt. _Air. Air._

 _Ma'heo'o Tsehehe'tovatsemenoto tsehestoestoveto he'amo'omee'e, **[1]**_

Everything started to go a little fuzzy around the edges. She hadn't had enough air in her lungs to hold her breath for a while.

 _momoxeono'atamaneto._

Chris shouting

Valentin at Dan's side, his gun raised guarding his boss, his lean face full of fear

 _Nehvehonoo'estse… it hurts…I can't breathe…Momoxeaahtoneto hetseno ho'eva_

Teammates advancing on the sides, pinning Chris in place

 _hapo'e tsehesheaahtoneto…please, boss, hurry…heneheohe …he'amo'omee'e._

The Glock pressing tightly against her skull with bruising force

 _Hetse…I'm sorry, Ian…esheeva …nexhoxom…_

Amidst the encroaching darkness, a flash of reflected sunlight on a nearby rooftop

BANG

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[1] The the non-English words in the final five lines in italics are the beginning sections of the Lord's Prayer in Cheyenne. Source: Cheyenne_ .


	6. After the Storm

**Author's Note #1: Finally the last chapter. I hope you enjoy, and I hope you have enjoyed the whole story. Please review if you have any questions or comments about this story or this series in general.**

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The first thing Asha noticed as she started to claw her way back from the blackness of unconsciousness was that her throat hurt bad, real bad, like someone had tried to slit her throat with a dull butter knife. The second thing she noticed was that there was an annoying beeping noise someone in the background that she really wanted to shut up. She was tired and wanted to go back to sleep where she wouldn't hurt anymore, but that awful noise just would not stop.

Finally, she summoned enough energy to drag her eyes open. She was in a hospital room, and the beeping was from a cardiac monitor. Valentin was sitting by her bedside. He had his feet propped up on the end of her bed and had somehow balanced his chair on two legs. An open book lay in his lap, but it did not look like he was paying much attention to it. The lighting made his usually thin face look even more pale and gaunt than usual.

Hearing the change in her breathing, Valentin looked up. A relieved smile broke across his face when he saw that she was awake, and he swung his legs down onto the floor with a thump, somehow without tipping his chair over. "It's about time you woke up, lazybones," he teased. Valentin had become one of her best friends on HRT like a brother she had never had.

"Wasn't sure I was going to," Asha replied in a low, hoarse voice. It hurt to talk.

Valentin moved his chair toward the head of the bed and then took her hand. "You scared us all half-to-death. First time in a long time I heard the Boss swear."

"Wasn't intentional," said Asha, fighting to keep her eyes open. She felt like she could sleep for a week easily. "What's time?"

Valentin glanced down at his watch, "About ten in the evening … Same day. After you fell, you were drifting in and out during the ambulance ride. We're at Stafford Hospital, by the way. You've been in and out here too."

"Don't remember," she murmured back. The last she remembered was Chris dragging her outside and then yelling at the cops while she fought to get a full breath of air.

Asha tiredly looked around the room. Valentin was the only one there with her, though she expected that a doctor would show up soon if Valentin did not go get one first. _Where's Ian?_ Valentin seemed to read her mind, "The Boss dragged Ian back to base to get a shower, some food, and a little sleep. Told your husband point blank that he was going to be no good to you until he calmed down and got a grip."

Asha's brow furrowed as the cogs slowly ground in her brain, trying to make sense of what her friend had just said. _Ian need to get a grip? That's not like him_. She knew she must be missing something important.

Seeing her evident confusion, Valentin went on to explain, "Ian nearly lost his cool when that fool put a gun to your head and threatened to blow your brains out if he didn't get what he wanted. Then when you collapsed like a puppet with cut strings when Ian had to take the shot … you really sacred him, Asha." He then stretched one long arm across her to press the call button, "The doctor will want to look at you, and then you can sleep some more."

The doctor arrived within moments and poked and prodded her and asked her a bunch of questions, making sure she hadn't lost a few brain cells after getting choked half to death, but then left her to rest. After Valentin helped her eat a few ice chips to soothe her aching throat, Asha started to drift off again when a thought flashed across her mind: _Luke!_

Her eyes snapped open. "Easy, easy," said Valentin, noticing her sudden start, "What's wrong?"

"Luke," She croaked, "The guard, is he all right?"

"He's up in ICU," replied Valentin, "Serious but stable. That shotgun blast did a lot of damage to his insides, but the docs patched him up, and they say he should make a full recovery. Grant was very impressed with what you were able to do with limited supplies."

"Necessity … mother," Asha replied. Her sudden adrenaline rush was wearing off as quickly as it had come, and her eyes were getting heavier and heavier.

"Go to sleep," said Valentin, "one of us will be here if you need anything."

Asha's eyes slipped shut, and exhausted, she soon drifted off again. She woke briefly at one point later during the night to find Valentin gone and Juan in his place. Some hours later, when she woke for a second time, dim sunlight was making its way through the cracks in the closed curtains, and Ian was sitting in the chair beside her. His eyes were closed, but his posture was too stiff for sleep, she sleepily judged. Her throat still felt too sore for speaking above a whisper, but her shifting rustled the covers enough to rouse him from his thoughts, and his eyes snapped open.

"How are you feeling?" Ian asked, his voice rough with suppressed emotion, as he took her hand in his.

"Better," she whispered back. Her throat still ached, but overall she felt a little better, stronger.

"I have yet to decide whether _that_ was the dumbest or the bravest move of your career." Trust Ian to always go straight to the point that was bothering him. Such a statement was also about as close as Ian would get in public to admitting how deeply the situation had affected him.

"Probably the most impulsive," she whispered back dryly. She had been forced to make a split-second decision on the basis of what her instincts and her gut had been telling her about what Chris might do. She had made the best decision she could in the circumstances.

"You nearly got yourself killed!" Ian saw no humor in the situation.

"I didn't see another choice. As far as I knew, he was about to go ballistic. 8 for 1, it was a risk I had to take," she replied, "We both knew the risks when we got together."

It was true that both Ian and Asha had known the risks when they first met back in 2004 and decided to get together, but that knowledge made it no easier when one or the other of them came home injured. It never got any easier knowing that one day one of them might not make it back. That was the price they had to pay for the sake of their jobs.


End file.
